Why Give Me a Heart?
by darkxliquoredxeyes
Summary: After Moses's departure, Egypt is left slaveless. As Rameses attempts to withold his image as a strong ruler, he can't help but feel the empty chasm that used to be his heart. Could his newfound attraction to a slave be his savior? PLEASE, PLEASE R/R!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Prince of Egypt, though this story idea and the character Nourhanne is completely mine.  
This story is based on my Rameses fangirlness. I needed an outlet so here it is! It's basically what went on in Egypt after Moses left according to me. It has pieces of history and pieces of the movie and then pieces of just.. me. xD Enjoy!**

**Why Give Me a Heart?**

Rameses woke to the morning's warm rays as they filtered through his airy tent. He turned over in his scented sheets, bringing the dark-skinned African beside him into view. She stirred as well, her black eyes fluttering open as her lips curved upwards. A smile. The pharaoh wanted to retch.

The tent was large, almost as large as a bedchamber. Pressing the soft cloth to her breasts she couldn't help but wonder if he had any emotion at all. Her expression turned to one of pain as he stood up, wrapping a cotton sheet around him. His browned back was turned to her, but… she could sense his tension. His frustration. He was finished with her. And she knew it. Perhaps her place in the palace would not be as great as he had promised. Perhaps she would no longer even be invited into the palace. As the servants rushed in to wash his face and apply his kohl, their reluctance to look at her set it in stone.

"Good-bye, your Majesty!" she somehow managed to chirp, sounding much happier than she felt. Rameses waved the back of his hand, his eyes now on the woman who deftly applied his cat-eyed look for the day, "I'll see you in the palace!" One boy unfolding the pharaoh's clothes looked up at her, holding the African's gaze for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles,

"The palace. Yes. Be sure to see you there," The pharaoh still did not turn around, "Sorry in advance if I don't see you until then…" were the last words she heard as she left the tent, her body still mostly uncovered, tears streaming down her cheeks. The damned Egyptians… What God had ever chosen to make the man so cruel?

**xXxXxXx**

Memory flooded her mind like the river Nile, the one thing that would now rule her life. Ironic how, just days before, she'd been decked out in gold as beautifully as any of the Egyptian Pharaoh's women. Now…Now what had she been reduced to? A woman in chains, staggering in the burning African sun, to be the lowest of the low: a slave.

Her father had been a merchant. _A merchant._ She didn't belong here among the moaning, groaning black-skinned slaves. She had had a happy living, a loving father, and…well…freedom. The Syrian Desert may have been as baking as that of the Africans, but it had been her home, not this sandy pit of hateful slave market upon slave market. As the days wore on, she found herself wishing for a master. The desire was pathetic, but it would save her from such endless torture.

A part of her still refused to believe that her father had made her leave. Jamal had loved her. Even Haifa, her mother, had loved her; notwithstanding Nourhanne having been a daughter.

Nourhanne could recall as clearly as the beating sun Farah, her truest friend. _Her_ father and mother only socialized by discourse. The constant anger and conflict could be seen even in public. They had no other way to lament their ill fortune of birthing five daughters. As the senior wife, Farah's mother had won her father's true heart. And with her five daughters, Farah's mother had lost it. Haifa had _never_ accused Nourhanne for her accidental femininity. Then again… Nourhanne had been their second born after Bashar… her parents had _had_ a son.

Perhaps she was being childish… Though Jamal had given her up, what could a trader in his position do? Egypt had ruined the economy of the markets when it lost its slaves. Her blame was not her in father.

It was Moses' fault! Had he not freed the Jews, the slave trade would not flourish so! Egypt would not be buying entire markets at a time to make up for its loss! Surely she could not listen to the tiny voice in the back of her mind—that the true blame could only be placed on her and only her. She'd been the one caught by those awful sneering demons that called themselves men. She'd been the one unable to escape, and, in the end, she would be the sweaty slave.

Nourhanne would no longer be handled with care as a rich merchant's daughter. Nourhanne, the 'fiery flower of Jamal,' was now just a sun-darkened face among thousands. She would be beaten for anything and to be touched inappropriately for everything. Tears flowed freely as the blisters on her feet hardened to calluses, the bruises and cuts on her bare arms and back scabbing over as she cursed the day a master would finally buy her.


	2. The Siren Among Savages

**Please don't think I'm a racist because I'm not. Nor am I trying to make Moses the bad guy and Rameses the good guy. This is just how I could picture Egypt and Rameses reacting, had the movie actually happened.**

**Chapter 1**

**The Siren Among Savages**

"Will we finally be finished if we buy this market as well?" Rameses asked absentmindedly, yawning as the ever-harmonious clink of chains signaled the oncoming of yet another trader. The huddled Africans who were already gathered in the market all seemed to be pleading with him, their eyes round with... what? Fear? Hatred? Acceptance? He could only hope, for their sake, that it was the third. His nostrils flared once more as the scent of their sweat washed over him, begging to be shut by any means possible. Pinching his nose, his revulsion subsided.

Zuberi, the wrinkled accountant to his left, adjusted his wig with quivering hands. He was one of the last remnants of his father's rule, and therefore indispensable to the empire. If anyone could help him repair Egypt, Rameses knew that Zuberi could. The accountant squinted at his heavily marked papyrus before once more looking up to his still-young pharaoh. At a glance, Rameses couldn't help but notice that Zuberi's face seemed to be even more wrinkled than usual, "I think so, your Grace, though, that is only according to my numbers… if you like I can check with Ishaq and give you a clearer answer by the end of the day…"

The pharaoh's eyes finally caught Zuberi's, his jaw clenching as he let go of his nose. The stench of slaves once more filled his nostrils, and he cringed, "Yes… Do that. And be quick about it. I am eager to be home. I miss—" He paused. Well… there were really only two people he missed now. And both had managed to leave him. His hand clenched around nothing, the ghost of his son's icy, tiny fingers emblazoned in his memory. He cursed the very day his mother had even considered giving him a brother.

The accountant looked up at his pharaoh, the sentence still hanging in the air between them. The king's eyes had taken him far away, though, suddenly, as if shaken out of a dream, he smiled in a way that he hoped was reminiscent and managed, "—my people."

The accountant nodded, touching the pharaoh's bare shoulder empathetically before hobbling off. The pharaoh, now alone, stared at the villainously grinning slave trader. A part of him hated lining the pockets of these greedy mongrels—what good could come from men selling their own people?—but… Rameses could never, and _would _never be the weak link in the chain. If he had to buy a thousand slaves to prove it, he would do so. No one, not even "God's Servant" Moses, would call him anything less than the perfect king. He _was_ the morning and the evening star!

The clinking grew louder. He stepped aside, covering his mouth and nose with the back of his hand as the newest band of slaves lurched onto the market ground. His eyes passed over them briefly… the vulgarity of this vile place made him want to turn away, but then—he froze.

Among the dark-skinned Africans stumbled the cause for his shock: a woman. He was sure it had been a trick of the desert sun but upon closer inspection he realized that yes, it was true—the woman's skin was paler than even his own. He blinked, wiping his eyes. There she still stood, ethereal, her eyes downcast, a siren among savages. He stepped forward precariously, wondering whether or not he should react.

He was given no choice when her master scampered over, bowing and kissing the pharaoh's feet before babbling about his 'strongest of the strong' slaves in a deeply accented Coptic. Rameses waved him away, his eyes focused on the woman. Making the long trek to finally stand before her, he adjusted his nemes and crown, swallowing in an attempt to wet his dry throat. Her half-closed gaze remained on her bare feet, either because she dared not look up or had lost the willpower to.

"Tell me…" he said, turning his attention back towards the trader, "What could such a desert flower be doing in a place like this?" Rameses immediately winced at his choice of words. Tzipporah had been the last woman he'd named so. Look at what good _she'd_ done. The tradesman looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged,

"I was not the one who found her, your Majesty. I have bought her from someone who bought her… she could be from anywhere."

Rameses studied her features, attempting to discover her identity. Her right nostril was pierced with a tiny red jewel that glittered in the sun, the nose upturned slightly, as if meekly attempting to greet the skies. Her eyebrows were sculpted well, the curves almost as perfect as any of his wives' at home. He took hold of her chin, forcing her face upward. Upon closer inspection he saw the tiny dark hairs growing beneath and in between the two brows. Her upper lip was the same, and as his finger moved downwards, from chin to neck, between her breasts and finally to her navel, his view of her became clear: she was not meant to be a slave.

The pharaoh was unsure of how to handle it. Should he set her free and send her home? Would that be a sign of weakness? She couldn't come to the palace… he didn't think he could see her, a girl that could have easily been one of his cousins, working amongst the rest of these savages. His finger circled her navel, his heart almost going out to the girl. She was young, it was obvious. A man and woman somewhere were probably _worried_ about her. Perhaps if he could get her to tell him who she was…

"Your name." Rameses said, his arm sliding around her waist. Now inches away from her, his hand moved steadily downward, attempting to get a reaction. Her resigned silence would have to be broken if he were to save her. He needed to know if she was even _worth _saving. He smirked as she finally winced, her long lashes parting to show two pools of copper flecked with gold and dark brown.

Rameses was speechless. He forgot almost everything, and in that moment could see nothing beyond the two glistening, almost feline eyes. Her cheeks were flushed as she gazed at him, calculating. Measuring. The pharaoh, helpless, narrowed his eyes in confusion. He returned to a more conscious state by the nervous laugh of the slave trader beside him. The pharaoh had almost forgotten that he'd even asked the girl a question. His free hand immediately grasped the siren's neck, rising a tiny gag from her,

"Answer!" he commanded, agitated. The girl's eyes narrowed, and Rameses felt movement in her throat beneath his hand. In shock he suddenly let her go, stepping back and crying out. She'd spit in his face.

Before he could even react the girl was on the ground, the force of her master's slap not only taking her down but several of the Africans connected to her. Nude and on her knees, she looked back up at him, her gaze unapologetic, and yet pleading. The African cursed at her in his native tongue, kicking at her legs for her to stand up once more. The pharaoh backed away from the scene, rubbing at his cheek even after it had dried.

Rameses' glare was fiery, but a part of him refused to hit the woman. Her dignity was already in the dust, he had no need to humiliate her further. The trader furiously hit her over the head once more, and she sobbed, her waves of black hair now covering her bruised cheeks. He took a step back, about to depart, when he heard a tiny voice, as clear and innocent as that of a child's,

"Nourhanne."

The pharaoh retraced his steps, returning to his tent. The scene still played in his mind in images as vivid as his son's corpse. "Nourhanne…" he mumbled to himself inaudibly, twirling the ring with his cartouche thoughtfully, "Nourhanne."


	3. Preparations

**This is a different version from the one you read that was published at 3:00 AM, November 21, 2008, American Eastern Time, lol. I don't know how many of you read the other version but… yeah. I don't know what I was thinking. Sorry that I published and republished and edited it so many times… I wanted to make it perfect. ^_^ **

**So… if you haven't noticed already, I'm going to switch points of view regularly. If you guys don't like that, please let me know. Then I'll just write from Rameses' point of view… haha. **

**Also, on a language/cultural note. "Baba" means "daddy" in Arabic. "Bus" is a little more difficult to translate, but kind of has two meanings. In general, its main meaning is like, "end," like a punctuation point in word form. But obviously there's more to it than that. It can mean like, "enough." Like, if a child is misbehaving, the parent can shout "BUS!" to get them to stop. Or it can be used as Intakaes uses it which is, "you're beautiful and that's all that can be said on the matter." Like, you're beautiful. That's it. Bus. Lastly, habibi. It's a pet name that means darling. That's all you really need to know about that. Oh yes and I looked it up… women **_**did**_** wear underwear. Haha. If you don't get anything, feel free to ask questions and I'll try to clarify. o_o**

**Finally… Thank you Opera 14 for being my first reviewer and favorite…er! And to Lady Sarivka of Tortal for for adding me to her Alerts! AND thanks to Nyx Lawlor and cry4thegrave for just.. being awesome. ^_^**

**Chapter 2**

**Preparations**

Egypt was finished with Africa. With the buying of the final three Libyan markets, the pharaoh's accountants had decided that it was time to pack up and go home. Perhaps, finally, the world be set right again. Nourhanne could almost sympathize with the Hebrews, now at least. To officially be under _his_ control was a fate worse than death.

His hands were still ghosts upon her skin. Nourhanne couldn't help but cringe every time she remembered those wandering hands… gentle, and yet crueler than even a dagger's blade, groping without abandon. And that man's eyes—almond shaped, and darkened amber—how could they show kindness and then touch her like a common whore? She had no regret for her reaction, save for perhaps the percussions it would bring later, but… King or not, the Egyptian pharaoh had no right to touch her. Even though, as one of the women beside her mumbled a tiny, "_So lucky_…" Nourhanne could never see herself as anything but cursed. To share the pharaoh's bed as a slave was not the fate she would submit herself to,

"Nourhanne?" a voice called out through the noise of the slave camp. Though the chains had been loosened for the night, the slaves around her sat in circles, staring at bonfires that had been lit in an attempt to keep the desert's cold away. The voice tried again, "Nourhanne!" It was creaky and soft. Kind, and yet firm, much like Jamal's. Nourhanne's heart pounded. Had her father come to save her? Had he seen the error of his ways? Somehow she knew it was good to be true… it_ had_ to be a trick of her fatigue. Jamal would _never_ come to rescue her. She looked around, attempting to see if she truly had made up the voice. Through the dark sea of slaves and slave masters,

"Where is the slave Nourhanne? Gods above, will none of you tell me?" So like Jamal's voice… Did she dare? Nourhanne supposed she did, "Baba?" she called out tentatively. She heard the tiny _flip-flop_ of sandals, and then was met face to face with someone who was very obviously not her father. Her eyes immediately went to her tiny feet. Jamal had not come, she couldn't pretend that she wasn't disappointed. Biting her lip, she forced away the tears of being sought out by _another_ man. The dread of being handled again made her heart heavy. As she saw his sandals stop in front of her feet, she ignored his cough. She refused to look any Egyptian in the eye, to consider them human. These villains hardly deserved the respect. Once again, fingers forced her face upward, "Nourhanne?"

The man was old, probably older than her father. His black wig (for it was very _obviously_ a wig) hung at the length of his ears, and moved fluidly with the rest of his body. After taking in the image his aged features, her eyes focused on the wrinkle between his dark eyebrows, "Who wants to know?" she finally asked in what she was proud to say was a brave voice. Her pounding heart had returned, but she would never let the Egyptians know how terrified they made her. Though the idea of becoming a pharaoh's concubine was perhaps one of the most daunting, she had long ago sworn that it would never show through. Nourhanne would never accept to be treated as a slave, no matter what her title was. She was still a merchant's daughter. She should have had the right to give orders. Never to take them.

Every leathery crease in the man's face crinkled into a large smile, "The pharaoh Rameses, young one. What a lucky girl you are, he wants to see you alone in his tent!" He took her wrist pulled her upwards, causing a loud reaction from the slaves connected to her. Nourhanne was in shock. She'd spit in his face, yet he still wanted her? Was he insane? The old servant called over a slave master, who unchained her. The servant immediately began to pull her away from the staring slaves, whose murmurs of 'Lucky'

and 'whore' made Nourhanne wince.

She was lead from the great bonfires to a path that snaked away from the markets. A grouping of tents loomed in the chilly dark, small flames on an otherwise black landscape. Shadows rose and fell in the largest of them all, and Nourhanne recoiled as the outline of the pharaoh's hook-nosed profile, but was lead away from the tent, "I thought we were…" Her shock was evident. The old man grinned,

"Oh yes. Though I hope you don't _really_ think that you can go before the pharaoh looking like this, do you?" Nourhanne blinked, her cheeks flushing. She hadn't expected the man to be so blunt… though she supposed, as a slave—a nothing—it didn't matter what people said to her anymore. The man continued, "The pharaoh's demanded that you are _fully_ taken care of. And, if you don't mind my saying so, you have been done a great honor, young one. You most certainly are precious to him… I haven't seen him this spellbound by anyone well…_ever_."

Nourhanne's eyes fell. Perfect. The last thing she wanted was to be the pharaoh's newest bedmate… his 'enchantress.' Haifa had once told her that women could be nothing more than chaste and innocent until the minute they _married_. Not a moment before. Nourhanne had always remembered the words, and knew that she would never give herself to a man until the moment he approached her father. Though she was not human to his eyes, Nourhanne was still a woman… she continually reminded herself of that fact. A woman who deserved respect. Coming back to reality, she realized that the man had still been talking,

"…and he asked _me _of all people to bring you. I'm an accountant, you see, not a delivery boy. But…well… he's my pharaoh. He is the morning and the evening star, you know... His word is law! At least he said that I am the most trusted man on his entire staff…" Nourhanne drifted away again, deciding that his rambling chatter could probably go on without her. They stopped in front of another lighted tent, and the old man smiled at her, "You'll be leaving my care now…Intakaes will make you look your _very _best for the pharaoh, and when she's finished, then you'll be brought before Him."

Nourhanne's eyes narrowed, "Intakaes?"

"She's mistress to the slaves in the palace. She'll pretty you up and ready you for the pharaoh, I think… It would be wise for you to get to know her now, before you even get home." Nourhanne cringed. Home… Home was with Jamal, Haifa, and Bashar in Assyria. It was smiling shyly at the other tradesmen's sons, and dancing at night to the sounds of _derbekkahs _or… well, in her new home, _tablahs_, as the jingles of her coins belts moved in time with her hips. Home was _not _the pharaoh's palace… nor was it his bedchamber.

The tent's opening parted, and a woman, perhaps as old as Haifa, perhaps a few years younger, smiled warmly at Nourhanne. The Assyrian found herself liking the other woman immediately. The wrinkles around her eyes showed Nourhanne that a smile had never been far from her.

"Nourhanne?" at her motherly tone, Nourhanne found herself smiling in reply as she nodded, "Good. We've a lot to do and a small amount of time to do it." Nourhanne was enveloped by the sudden light of the torches within the tent as they stepped within. Women in white dresses all stood facing her, staring. Self consciously, Nourhanne attempted to cover herself with her arms. Intakaes laughed merrily, "There's no need, Nourhanne. We all look the same. Though, my dear, it has to be said that you're a goddess among us!" Nourhanne blinked as the tinkling of laughter echoed throughout the tent.

"I'm…"

"Beautiful!"

"That's kind, but…"

"It's not a matter of a compliment, Nourhanne. It's the truth. _Bus._" Nourhanne looked up, the sound of her own language on someone else's tongue making her start. Inakaes grinned, "My father's wife was an Arab."

"As is mine! My parents met in the markets and…" she gasped, her palms slapping against her lips in a sudden attempt to cut herself off. She'd wanted to be silent. She couldn't be friendly to these people… her _masters_… she couldn't. Intakaes' smile widened,

"We Arab women have to stick together, you know. You can trust me, Nourhanne. Unlike the pharaoh, _I_ know how to deal with a temper like yours." Nourhanne's cheeks blazed, her smile guilty as she let her hands fall back down to her sides, "I felt the very same as you did when I grew of age to start _really_ working…"

"Is your entire family of servants?" Intakaes nodded, gesturing for the girls to come over. Nourhanne could smell the scented salts even at a distance, relieved that she would have her first bath in a while. Though the reason for all of this was loathsome, she couldn't help but feel excitement at being pampered again. Intakaes gripped Nourhanne's arms and held them out as the girls began to scrub her down,

"Mine isn't…" Nourhanne finally said, making Intakaes stop. All of the women suddenly looked up at her, pairs and pairs of feline brown eyes gaping in unison, "I'm not meant to be here at all. I should be at home, as a—"

"A princess?" one smaller girl piped up, "Like the ones in the stories Mama tells?" She may have looked mature, but judging by her voice, Nourhanne guessed that she was ten. Intakaes immediately looked up from her work, "Right Mama? She _looks _like one!" Intakaes smirked, coiling one of Nourhanne's dark waves of hair around her finger. Nourhanne couldn't help but miss Haifa as she shook her head in response. The reaction went ignored.

"Indeed she does, _habibi_. It's no surprise that the pharaoh likes her so much… Perhaps he's recognized his next wife in her…"

"I'm not a princess!" Nourhanne blurted. Once again, all eyes turned to her as she stood before them, still naked and now brushed with the scent of jasmine, "My father was a merchant. We lived in Aleppo. We were rich but never _that_ rich! You don't really think the pharaoh would want to…" she couldn't even manage the last words. A sudden weight felt like it had lifted from her chest, as though by saying her identity it had finally flown away for good. In its place came the heavier weight of really and truly being considered the pharaoh's girl now… his 'princess,' as it seemed. Intakaes sighed and took her hand,

"It is a dream we all share, my sweet but… all jokes aside, no. The pharaoh never marries a slave." Immediately, Nourhanne's respect for the woman crashed. A dream? More like a nightmare. Could anyone_ really_ want to marry a man as despicable as the pharaoh? Of course, the idea of the title was enticing but… Nourhanne had believed from her first thinking day in true love. She had been told that her father would always fight for her to marry a man she genuinely liked… Jamal had said it would have been the least he could do for her. Nourhanne couldn't help but wonder who Intakaes had ended up marrying.

Her daughter took Nourhanne's hand, "We'll go to the river now!" she said, a few other girls closer to Nourhanne's age trailing them as they left the tent. Intakaes stayed behind, promising to prepare 'everything else.' The Nile's water, the one thing that would in a small amount of time rule her very life, was cold, but refreshing. Nourhanne couldn't help but cry out at the chill as she stepped out once more, her shivers making the servant girls coo.

A shivering Nourhanne returned alert and ready, her olive skin ruddy from the cold water. A mat had been laid out on top of cushions, and Intakaes kneeled beside it with bowls filled with everything from kohl to wax to henna to ochre. Nourhanne swallowed, beginning to feel like a whore as she was once more made to spread her arms. Panties were widened beneath her legs, and she stepped into them. Intakaes immediately pulled her out of them, "Not until we wax her!" she admonished, touching Nourhanne's shoulder and gently guiding her to lie down on the mat.

With a flat piece of wood, she spread the thick, warmed wax unto Nourhanne's face first, curving it under the eyebrows and over her upper lip. She couldn't help but wince in pain as the hair was pulled off, a reaction that couldn't be avoided. She closed her eyes and sighed as the rest of her body was cleared of hair, her thoughts turning towards the price that such treatment would cost. In shock they opened again as she felt her skin being kneaded by the girls, this time oils of palm and jasmine. She blushed at the idea of being touched almost everywhere _again_ by complete strangers.

Though… she supposed though that eventually these women would not be strangers. By looking at them, Nourhanne could guess who would be a friend and who would be an enemy, though discerning their actual ages was almost impossible. Finally, Nourhanne was made to stand up, once again putting her legs through the underwear.

"First, I think, we'll dress you in this…" Intakaes unfolded a sheer linen cloth—somewhere in her memory, her mother whispered as a woman passed by, _that's a kalasiris, my little one…the Egyptians wear them_—that was as white as the rest of theirs. Again, Nourhanne's arms were spread as it was draped over her.

Nourhanne's surprise couldn't be contained as she noticed the dress's low neckline. Nor the fact that it ended at her knees, leaving her hairless calves completely exposed. And especially not that though the dress was draped, it seemed to have been made for someone much smaller than her. It hugged her _very_ closely, and, as the belt was tied around her waist, seemed to show every curve and dip in her body. She looked up questioningly at Intakaes, whose smile had disappeared, "You may not be a one in your heart, _habibi¸_ but you still are the pharaoh's slave…" Nourhanne cringed.

Next came the kohl, generously applied to her eyelids and lashes, most likely making Nourhanne look as she once had: as her father put it, "like that queen of cats…"

Finally the red ochre was brushed on, staining her cheeks and lips with its bright hue. Nourhanne felt, embarrassingly, pretty. She stood up, and all the girls smiled at her, proud of their handiwork. Intakaes kissed her cheek, and the little girl took her hand once more.

They walked to the pharaoh's tent in a group; Nourhanne was given the image of being sent to an execution. As they stood before the great tent's entrance, she could see servants running about, their shadows betrayed by the light within. She shivered in the desert cold, or perhaps with anticipation. She couldn't be sure. Intakaes touched Nourhanne's hand respectfully before calling out,

"Nourhanne is ready for his Majesty the pharaoh…" There was a pause. Silence, as if everyone had in one simultaneous movement, turned towards her. And then that voice again, the voice Nourhanne had hoped to forget,

"Bring her in."


End file.
